


Solace

by IamShadow21



Series: Teapot 'verse [4]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Comfort Sex, Cookie Fic, Drunk Sex, Drunkenness, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fake Chapter, Gift Fic, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Short, Teapot 'verse, Teapot 'verse Cookie Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-01-13
Updated: 2008-01-13
Packaged: 2018-01-07 06:07:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 501
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1116406
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IamShadow21/pseuds/IamShadow21
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lee keeps George company the night before his first birthday alone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Solace

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mapleandmahogany](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mapleandmahogany/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Teapot](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1113535) by [IamShadow21](https://archiveofourown.org/users/IamShadow21/pseuds/IamShadow21), [kath_ballantyne](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kath_ballantyne/pseuds/kath_ballantyne). 



> Written to cheer up mapleandmahogany.
> 
> As some of you may remember, my chapter [Mistakes](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1113535/chapters/2242435) includes some failed/one-sided/drunken George/Lee.
> 
> Well, this is what *might* have happened, had Lee been more drunk and/or less straight.

“So, the _hag_ says…” Lee is coming to the climax of a very long and meandering joke.

“Yeah?” I say, encouragingly.

“The hag says…” he repeats.

“What?” I ask, fascinated, even though I’ve forgotten how the joke started.

“Um…something about badgers, I think…” Lee mumbles, a confused frown on his face.

I find myself dissolving into giggles anyway. “Badgers!” I pour two more hefty measures of whiskey and pass one to Lee. “Drink up, y’ big girl! Y’re already behind. One, two, THREE!”

I knock my drink back with practiced ease. Lee’s obviously goes down the wrong way, because he coughs and splutters, half of the alcohol winding up down his shirtfront.

“That,” I declare, pointing an accusatory finger at him, “is a shameful waste of good booze, that is.”

And without thinking, I brush my fingers up his shirt and across his glistening chin, before popping them in my mouth and sucking enthusiastically.

There is a pause, a heartbeat’s measure of time, before I realise the mood has turned abruptly from silly to serious. Lee looks stunned, as though someone has just clubbed him across the temple.

“Drink,” I say suddenly, and he doesn’t argue, gulping his new glassful rather desperately.

Through the haze, I take note of the way his thin dreadlocks frame his face, his black eyes dart glances at me and his creamy chocolate skin has a rosy blush painted across the cheekbones. Lee’s hand is fisted around a fold of his robes, the knuckles pale, and impulsively I lean forward and stroke the back of his hand with my fingertips. He jumps.

“What are you doing?” he asks, his voice hoarse, his pupils wide and wild.

“What do you _think_ I’m doing?” I ask, a fingertip still drawing slow circles on his dark skin.

“I…” He swallows hard. “I think I need another drink.”

“I exist to serve you,” I smirk, deftly pouring with my left hand, while stroking the delicate skin of his inner wrist with my right. His eyes have sunk closed, and his breathing is uneven.

“Lee?” I ask a moment later. His eyes spring open, and they’re deep and unreadable. He grabs the tumbler and drinks the new measure in a series of unsteady swallows. 

He’s avoiding my gaze. I’m determined not to think about my right hand, which has started rubbing his inner thigh, or my left, which is slipping under his heavy mane of dreads to cup the nape of his neck. I’m leaning forward, shuffling closer to him, perching on the edge of my seat so that I can press my lips to his. First tentatively, then with increasing urgency. It’s hot and wet and clumsy, and there are small noises – whimpers and grunts – as his arms wrap around me and his hands claw at my back. There’s a battle going on, a war against clothing. I hear fabric tear, a boot thud to the floor.

“Bed?” he asks.

We only make it as far as the couch.


End file.
